The Prisoner's Dilemma, partial
by Mikkeneko
Summary: When Ed gets captured while investigating the disappearance of dozens of people, who should he find already there but Roy Mustang? It may take all his ingenuity to get out of this one alive... WARNINGS: dark, torture, angst. Not the full version.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Prisoner's Dilemma  
Rating: PG-13+  
Warnings: Dark, angst, violence; references to torture, references to NCS.  
Summary: When Ed gets himself captured by a splinter military cell that has been kidnapping people, he finds Roy Mustang already there. And it may take all his ingenuity to get them both out alive...

Author's Notes: This is the PARTIAL version of the fic 'The Prisoner's Dilemma.' The full version can be found at my profile under scimitarsmile dot com.

* * *

Edward could tell immediately when the natural caverns gave way to artificial caverns -- much too smooth to be chipped out by power-driven tools, they had to have been transmuted. That definitely clinched it -- the alchemist they'd been chasing had to be here somewhere, had to be involved in the creation of these caves. And caves this extensive would have taken immense time and energy to transmute, which meant that wherever they were going, it was probably the very heart of their whole operation.

Of course, the half a dozen thugs that were dragging him down the abnormally smooth passage by his hair might have been a clue in that direction, too. Since he'd refused to walk, they had resorted to carrying him -- one on each limb and two for the automail arm.

At every corner or stumble he'd kick up a struggle again, more to let them know he wasn't going to be complacent than out of any real hope of getting away, but what the hell, why not make them work for it? Besides, it was satisfying to see that he'd managed to annoy them, even if their way of showing it was stopping to take a moment to smash his face against the floor again.

"So when was the last time you lot saw the light of day?" Ed asked; it came out somewhat muffled around a split and swollen lip, but it was the tone that was the important part anyway. "'Cause I'm telling you, you sure do stink like somebody put you in storage and forgot to throw you out later --"

"Shut the hell up," snarled the thug with the grip on his hair, and tightened his hold painfully. Ed grinned, and didn't really care whether they saw him do it or not.

These goons were as thick as a pile of bricks, and while they might have gotten him good -- six against one odds were just too much in close range even for him -- there was no sign that they'd managed to get hold of Al. He'd heard gunshots -- sometime after he'd taken that big knock to his head but before his vision had cleared up enough to be reliable -- but that didn't really worry him, Al was bulletproof. It would take more than a few incompetent hired thugs to keep him down.

And that being the case, Ed was pretty sure he wouldn't be stuck here for too much longer. He put up a token show of resistance and kept his eyes half-closed, counting side-passages and meters and mapping the place in his head.

He just hoped Al had got away clean. When they'd detonated that shipment, it had shaken up the whole cave system -- parts of it had collapsed or shifted, he'd heard the rockslides floating up through the vents. Their planned escape route might have collapsed, leaving Al trapped or lost in the caves. Al might not even be able to find his way back to the old abandoned mine entrance, let alone into the man-made part of the cave system.

Maybe they should have done some more scouting, before they'd opened up an assault. They hadn't looked to find all the ways in and out of this underground lair; they hadn't even a clue as to where the kidnapped craftsmen were being held. But when he and Al had crawled out of their transmuted hiding place in the belly of the freight car, they'd found the underground train platform completely deserted, with the gunpowder and chemical crates piled six feet deep on a side -- and the opportunity had seemed too good to pass up, to destroy the stolen contraband and their means of transport all at once.

Edward scolded himself for his sloppiness. If only he'd been standing a few feet closer to Al, maybe he wouldn't have lost sight of him in the smoke -- and if he had thought to cover his ears before the explosion went off, he would have heard the shouts and running footsteps of the guards before the first of them bodyslammed him.

And now here he was, being hustled along top-speed down this slimy nowhere cavern... well, he'd just have to keep his eyes and ears open; first to find out all he could about this crazy runaway alchemist and his band of thieves, and then to figure out a route of escape.

Speaking of which, how much deeper did these tunnels go? He'd counted nearly two dozen cross-passages so far, some of them even wider and better accommodated than this one -- was this even a main artery?

"Hey, aren't you guys going to blindfold me?" Ed said flippantly, though his mouth was beginning to go dry. The thugs looked at him as if he were speaking in some other language, Russian maybe. "You know... so I won't know the route? So I won't be able to tell anyone else how to get in?"

They looked at him again, then at each other, and snickered as if he'd just made some fantastic joke. "Oh, yeah," one snorted, elbowing his compatriot in the ribs. "Yeah, you got it, we're real worried about that."

"Well, you should be," Edward growled, pushing down on his growing uneasiness with anger. "'Cos as soon as I get loose here I'm going to kick your asses from here to Crete and back and --"

"Shut it," snarled one of the goons, the one Edward was coming to think of as most senior. He couldn't be the alchemist, thought -- he had none of the attitudes, the mannerisms of a man of science, even a crazy or unbalanced one. The man jerked his head towards a side-passage. "In here, boys. Check point."

This round, slick-walled corridor dead-ended after just a few feet against a heavy steel door, the first one Edward had seen. His captors dropped him unceremoniously the few feet to the floor -- he didn't have time to get his arms to legs under him, and his chin cracked painfully against the hard stone. He briefly saw stars, and then abruptly a heavy weight pressed down on his back, pinning him to the floor, making it difficult to breathe.

Still, he grinned a tiny bit, against the floor where it couldn't be seen; they had left his hands free, the amateurs. Should he make a break for it now? His flesh hand twitched, anticipating, though the automail remained still. He was sure he could get through this door, into the laboratory or prison cell or whatever was beyond. On the other hand, then he'd be without a guide again in this warren.

Before he could make up his mind, or his breath, to act, there was a rattle and a clank and the heavy steel door swung open, revealing a forest of black-booted legs beyond. Ed's eyes widened and he craned his neck as best as possible to look up, as the legs strode -- no, marched -- into the hallway, and fell into a rigid, precise line along the wall.

One last pair of gleaming black boots followed more slowly, stopping so close to his face that he nearly went cross-eyed, and a bass voice barked, "Atten-shun!"

Edward's stomach went cold. The goons holding him captive fell back, into a close imitation of the rigid line -- although whatever gorilla was pinning him down didn't move off, just shifted his weight.

He saw them move to salute, out of the corner of his eye, and then the leader of the goon squad snapped out, "Captured this intruder at the West Ferry Gate, sir. Believe him to have been one of the two interlopers responsible for the explosion there."

"So I see," said shiny-boots, with a chilly edge to his voice. "Where's the other?"

"He didn't pass by our station, sir," the man said. "He may have gone on to South Water Gate. We came straight here."

"Then the all-hands alert is still in effect. Return to your stations at once," the man said brusquely. "We'll take charge of this prisoner. Dismissed."

"Yessir!" The weight on his back finally shifted and eased; Ed began to draw in a breath and move, only to find himself grabbed and jostled by an entirely new set of hands. He growled, and struggled as best he could as they hauled him up quickly enough to make his head spin --

-- and it was with no surprise, though with stomach-sinking dread, that Ed found himself nose to chest with the gold-on blue insignia of a Major in the Amestris State Military.

With one addition: on his right breast pocket, opposite the normal tabs of rank and and division on the left, was pinned a gold metal brooch. It showed a pair of balanced scales, above which was thrust a policeman's baton. Edward's eyes nearly crossed trying to pick out the script picked out in tiny letters below him, but he caught ission of Law before the man stepped back, looking down at him with cold eyes.

Ed's throat was growing increasingly dry, and he had to stop and swallow for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something, keep up the defiant attitude, even though his wits were too scattered by this sudden reversal of his assumptions to come up with anything.

Before he had the chance to think of something, however, the major had turned away and was giving orders. "Get those handcuffs on him," he snapped out. "I want his hands behind him, and I want him to walk ahead, where we can see them at all times."

"Sir?" One of the other men paused, and looked uncertain.

"Use your eyes, man -- this is the Fullmetal Alchemist." A sudden stir of uneasiness among the men, and their attention snapped back on him; he almost winced. Damn, for once in his life it might have paid to be less memorable... "Mission control will shit themselves when we get him back there, and I don't want him drawing any funny arrays until he's off our hands."

"What, afraid that little old me will take on all... five of you?" Ed scoffed. The major's aide unhooked the handcuffs from his belt and came after him; he kicked suddenly outward, propelling himself backwards and causing the man to flinch away.

The two men flanking him grabbed for firmer holds on his arms, and after a moment of scuffling managed to pin him against the wall with his wrists behind him. Ed gave one last futile twist as the handcuffs fastened around his wrist -- cold hard metal against one wrist, scraping noise against the other.

Giving up, he sneered at them "Awful scared, aren't you? Or do you guys just realize how much you suck compared to me?"

"Hardly," the major replied. Out of the corner of his eye, Ed saw him lift one finger to tap at the unfamiliar insignia. "I simply believe in being... realistic."

After delivering that cryptic line, he refused to rise to any more of Ed's baiting; at his direction, the soldiers pulled Ed away from the wall and herded him through the heavy metal doorway. He heard -- and felt -- the pressure differential as it clanged shut behind them, and then it was back to the smooth, featureless, dark stone corridors. Damn. Well, at least he could count steps, now, and not just turn-offs.

He'd estimated they'd come at least another thousand meters -- fourteen hundred steps -- before the close hallway suddenly opened out into a larger cavern. Light had formerly been supplied by phosphorescent patches, or weak fluorescent tubes; now it opened up to a yellow-white strong enough to see by.

Shafts, maybe, bouncing sunlight down from above? They couldn't possibly be close enough to the surface to have outside access from here. Although where there were sunlight shafts... Edward filed this thought away for later consideration.

More important, now, were the two-dozen men busily filling up the chamber in front of him. Ed's eyes narrowed, darting from side to side, trying to take it all in. This room was filled with tables and benches, and the walls were lined with cabinets and tables covered with equipment he didn't have time to identify. Obviously some kind of command center.

At least half of the men filling it were wearing the insignia-less black fatigues like Ed had encountered in the outer chambers. But the rest wore blue uniforms, of varying ranks, each with the scales-and-baton insignia. It was very obvious from the reactions -- or lack of them -- to his entrance that this was business as usual for him, not a special greeting committee for his sake.

At the limit of Ed's peripheral vision, he saw the major stop, snap to attention, and salute. "Reporting in from West Gate, sir! This is one of the intruders responsible for the explosion there."

Ed stumbled forward a step as insistent hands pushed him forward, then shrugged hard against the restraining hand and stepped forward again, tossing his head back defiantly as he stood square on his own legs.

His attention was immediately drawn to a large, bulldog like figure of a man in the center of the room; a sense of nagging familiarity accompanied it, but he couldn't quite pin it down. The man was large and bulky, reminding him faintly of Armstrong and much more strongly of Basque Gran, but there was more of fat and less of muscle on this man. His hair was shaggily overgrown, his cheeks and nose red and blotched, but there was a sharpness about his eyes that was disconcerting.

He had been puffing on a cigar when Ed entered; now he tucked it behind his ear, and favored Edward with a broad grin. "Well, now, isn't this unfortunate," he said, in a loud, jovial voice. "So this is our little saboteur -- Edward Elric? One of them, at least. Still haven't picked up the other, for some reason. Care to explain how, eh?"

So they hadn't caught Al yet! The thought filled Ed with a warm roll of confidence from head to toes, and he drew himself up a little straighter and said with an insolent smile, "Mister, I think there's gotta be some misunderstanding. I dunno who this Eric guy is! All I was doing was just playing down in the caves, and then these guys came out of nowhere and grabbed me! I wasn't doing anything wrong, honest!"

He was half-expecting the resounding smack to the back of his head that followed that, and was able to duck with it (although he still saw stars briefly, courtesy of his earlier knocks.) "Don't fuck around, kid!" one of the guards said, grabbing Ed's flesh shoulder and squeezing painfully; but any further commentary was cut off by the big man throwing his head back and laughing.

"You've got spunk! You've got spunk! I like that!" he chortled, as he got himself under control. "Shame, really, but that'll have to go. No, no. Nice try, boy, but we've already got independent confirmation of your identity. All that we've got left to find out is what you're doing here."

Ed shrugged, and let his lip curl in the sneer. "Why shouldn't I be here? I'm the Alchemist of the People, after all. Breaking up scum like you is all in a day's work for me. Oh," he added, throwing in a note of false sympathy, "sorry about your train tracks, Mister. They were kinda shoddy work, to go up so easy. Guess you're kinda screwed for supplies now, huh?"

The big man snorted, pulled down his cigar and took a drag, before flicking the ashes again. "That won't slow us down. We'll have to reroute shipments through the other gates for a few days, no more. No, you've got bigger things to worry about at the moment, Elric."

Other gates...? Uneasiness tickled at the back of Ed's mind, though he quashed it. "I told you, it's my job to come in and shut down criminals. If you don't like it," he tossed off loftily, "take it up with my C.O."

Or better yet, Mustang could take it up with them -- if Al really had escaped, maybe he would go and get help? They were less than a day's travel from Central, and this had all the signs of being a seriously big conspiracy in the works. If Al could tip Mustang off to it, then the cavalry might arrive within a few days, yes!

But the big man merely smiled, unruffled by the implied threat. "Maybe I will, at that," he said, and took another long drag on his cigar. He stubbed it out on the table in front of him, and his sharp eyes shifted over Ed's shoulder. "Well, Mustang, is what Elric says true? Here under orders, is he?"

Edward froze, body going stiff and mind grinding to a half for a moment as a familiar, calm, smug voice floated into his ears from behind. "Not in the slightest. In fact, as I recall, Fullmetal was ordered to the Drachman border less than a weak ago."

Ed couldn't even unfreeze enough to turn his head, but from the corner of his eye he saw a dark blur in blue walk past him and lean casually against the table, hitching one foot on a bench in a casual posture. Dark eyes bored into him with an infuriatingly calm gaze as Mustang continued, "Fullmetal has always been exceptionally bad at following orders, but this is a new record of insubordination from him. What are you doing here, Fullmetal?"

It took Ed two tries, moving his lips and tongue soundlessly against the dry ice that seemed to have clogged up his mouth, before he managed to choke out, "What am I doing here? What the living fuck are you doing here? Did they..." A last warm ray of hope flickered in his mind, and he grasped it with both hands. "Did -- did they catch you, too?"

Mustang gave a small smile, but said nothing; it was the large man who laughed again, boomingly, and clapped Mustang hard in the back; hard enough that the metal brooch on his chest chinked and jangled. "That we didn't! Or at least, not in the same way we caught you. Eh, did we, Mustang?" He smirked at the younger man. "No, this one came in from the cold willingly. Bit of a role model for you, isn't he, Elric?"

"Bullshit!" The cry burst from Edward's throat before he could contain it. "You -- you said there was nothing wrong! You said that the reports of kidnapped people were just rumors, that nobody was missing --"

"And indeed, they aren't." Mustang chuckled slightly. "I knew exactly where they were. They're right here, of course." Calmly, as though nothing in the world were amiss, Mustang reached into his pocket and drew out a cigar case, pulling out two fresh cigars.

He placed one in his mouth, and nonchalantly passed the other to the bulky officer. He was wearing his gloves, and with a brief snap he had lit them both, before glancing back up at Ed's face. "There's no need to look so shocked, you know. I've merely found another route to express my ambitions."

"I don't believe this!" Edward realized he was trembling, thought he didn't feel at all cold -- in fact, he didn't feel much of anything, yet, through the pins-and-needles sensation. "This is -- this has to be some sort of trick. The Roy Mus -- the Colonel I knew would never have --"

"Well then, Fullmetal," Roy said equably. "That just goes to show that you didn't know me all that well, now doesn't it? No, this is the real me, and there is no trick. Except, ah --" and another small, malicious smile, " -- except on the brass at military headquarters, that is. They should be quite surprised, when the Mission of Law rises up to overthrow them. I expect it will be quite thrilling."

"You fucking bastard!" Edward didn't realize he'd lunged forward until he'd been jolted to a stop by restraining hands; his wrists strained uselessly, behind his back, against the handcuffs. "I'llkillyouI'llkillyouI'll --"

The big man took a puff on his new cigar, frowning thoughtfully at Ed's wild struggle, before remarking offhandedly, "He's quite a volatile little bugger, isn't he? Are you sure it wouldn't be easier in the long run just to shoot him in the head now and put the body into cold storage until after the coup?"

Ed froze, his vision narrowed down to a long tunnel, breath panting loudly in his ears.

Mustang shrugged, offhandedly. "Easier? Probably. Better? Maybe not. I assure you, sir, that despite his discipline... issues, Fullmetal is an intelligent and powerful alchemist. And Underground has standing orders regarding trained professionals -- letting such a valuable resource go to waste would not be a good turn on our parts. In my opinion, sir."

The older man frowned -- a real frown of displeasure, it seemed, and no longer an affectation. "But will he be made loyal?" he asked, with a subtle inflection of tone that was beyond Edward's power to identify.

Mustang's eyes narrowed, and he touched the fingers holding the cigar to his lips, but didn't take it. "Perhaps not," he murmured. "All things considered, sir, I think Fullmetal is capable of looking at the situation... realistically."

"Sir!" Another urgent voice broke in on the tableau; both Mustang and the older man turned their heads to see a young man in the uniform-and-insignia rush in from another direction, and snap an urgent salute. "There's some kind of commotion at the South Water Gate, sir! We think it might be the other intruder!"

"Very well, Lieutenant," the big man said brusquely, and pushed away from the table, stubbing out the new cigar with an attitude of regret. "I'll come oversee the situation myself. Colonel, attend me. Major, take the new prisoner down and get him secured in the lower block."

"Remember, he is an alchemist," Mustang added in a detached tone. "Take no chances. He may yet prove a great asset to the Mission."

"Of course, Mustang. Good on you to think of these things." The bigger man waved brusquely. "Carry on, Major."

"Sir." The officer at Ed's side snapped another salute, and gave a curt gesture towards his underlings. Hands on Edward's shoulders and arms jostled him into motion, and Edward staggered as he was roughly shoved and turned this way and that. They led him back out the way they had come, and if he craned his neck he could barely see Mustang following his commander out. His new commander.

"Mustang!" Ed called, and suddenly began to struggle -- not to get free, but just to slow down their progress. "Roy! Roy, listen to me! I don't know what they promised you -- I don't know what you think you can get out of this, but listen --"

He managed to brace himself against the doorframe, and dug in his heels as three of them tried to pry him off of it. "Dammit, Roy, don't do this! You say I don't know you but I do, I know this much, you're an alchemist like me! You're not on the same level as all these people. You have the power to make the world a better place, it's your duty, dammit, I know that you know it! Are you going to let them make you forget it? R --"

An explosion of stars cut off whatever he was going to say next, and he came back to himself to dizziness and fresh blood in his mouth. Dammit! What was up with everyone hitting him in the head today? Nauseous and weakened, and with no hands free, he was unable to resist them as they pulled him through the doorway, into the darkened corridor beyond.

With his head hanging down, he caught one last glimpse of Roy leaving the chamber; his back was perfectly straight, and he hadn't once turned around.

* * *

~tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Prisoner's Dilemma  
Rating: PG-13+  
Warnings: Dark, angst, violence; references to torture, references to NCS.  
Summary: When Ed gets himself captured by a splinter military cell that has been kidnapping people, he finds Roy Mustang already there. And it may take all his ingenuity to get them both out alive...

Author's Notes: This is the PARTIAL version of the fic 'The Prisoner's Dilemma.' The full version can be found at my profile under scimitarsmile dot com.

* * *

How ironic, Roy had often thought, that the self-named Mission of Law had been reduced to filling its manpower with criminals. It had been investigating the quiet disappearance of so many criminals that had led Roy to collide with the Mission in the first place -- and when Jacobs had taken him aside, and calmly laid out the options between cooperation, dishonor and exile, or death, Roy had found himself very much of a Realist indeed.

The Realists of the Mission considered themselves free of the idiotic ideology of the Loyalists, and Roy had been able to slide into place among them almost seamlessly. Perhaps a bit _too_ practical of them; they saw his ambition and his practicality, his adaptability and his cleverness, but never seemed to consider the idea that he might turn those very qualities back on them.

Since none of the rebel's eyes were on him just now, Roy let himself take the stairs to the subbasement two at a time, all the while cursing virulently in his head. Damn, damn, damndamnDAMN Edward's theatrics! The little brat had no common sense _at all!_

Bad enough that he'd screwed up and let himself get captured in the first place (and wasn't the Drachman border far enough away to send him? Edward's attraction to trouble was truly epic,) by this band of screwups. Worse that he'd put Roy and his carefully-nurtured cover in jeopardy -- in every sense of the word! If the idiot had stopped for just one MINUTE to THINK about why Roy might be here, then maybe he would have caught on without letting all their enemies on to it as well! Was Edward supposed to be a genius, or not?

And if those two things weren't bad enough, if Edward insisted on carrying on, with his damn idiotic bravado and posturing and theatrics.... because Roy knew his young charge too well to think that Edward would just submit to captivity quietly. He'd angered them enough already, playing havoc with their carefully-laid infrastructure; but if he continued to antagonize them, having placed himself at their mercy...

Roy had been among these men for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous. Men like Admiral Jacobs were dangerous enough -- ruthless, cold, and calculating, they would happily swap their own mothers for a chance of advancement.

It wasn't through accident that Jacobs had gotten himself into the senior council of Fuhrer's advisors, over the heads and sometimes of the bodies of his rivals. And it wasn't a coincidence that Jacobs had turned to conspiracy and coup, when he'd found his career at the top bracket finally stalled. Jacobs, and his cadre of like-minded men and subordinates, had burrowed deeper into -- and under -- the Amestrian government than the naive idiots up top had ever realized.

But even Jacobs and his followers, as ruthless as they were, came a pale second when it came to the Loyalists. The Underground Alchemist was none too stable himself -- as so many of the half-pay State Alchemists were -- but the following he'd amassed were even worse.

Fanatics -- or, he supposed you could call them, idealists -- who prized personal loyalty to the leader over every other quality... Jacobs and the other Realists were only interested in seizing power in the government, putting the country under martial law. But the Loyalists dreamed of a government where every man and woman from the lowest to the highest was unwaveringly, unbreakably, personally loyal to the leader. And such loyalty, ironically, could only be enforced by propaganda -- purges -- brainwashing.

Oh, yes, they came out of the cell block loyal -- loyal, and with half a mind, personalities and sometimes bodies shattered by the 'debriefing' experience. No doubt that was what they had in mind for Edward -- and just what use did they expect to get out of him afterwards, if they broke his brilliant mind in the process? Roy found himself grinding his teeth, and forced himself to relax. Calm, had to be calm.

Roy's landed on the corridor floor with a ringing thud, and he took a moment to compose himself, breathing deeply to disguise his hurry, and straighten his uniform. It was _very important_ that he appear calm and detached, unconcern with their new 'prisoner's fate.

According to the warden, Edward was being held in the second cell on the right -- originally subterranean storerooms, now converted into holding cells with the addition of rows of strong metal bars sunk into the rock. Roy had seen one or two, though thankfully not personally. This whole place was a warren of stone corridors, burrowed into the rock with an alchemical unnatural smooth finish. It had taken Roy over three weeks to learn them all, and he still wasn't sure where all the exits were.

His cover was still intact. For that, Roy silently thanked any and all deities that might be attending to this world. Intact, but very shaken. Roy would not have dared, not by any means, permission to approach Edward on his own; it would have immediately been targeted as suspicious. But when his own supervisors (Roy refused to use the word_superiors_ to apply to this lot of slime-grubbers,) had requested him to sit in on Edward's interrogation, on account of his familiarity with the boy's abilities, Roy could almost have kissed them.

Almost.

There would be no difficulty identifying _which_ room Edward had been taken to, Roy realized with a sinking heart. Half of the cells were closed and heavily locked, with dim lights or none filtering through the tiny square windows; but all of them were silent except one. From the third door in the row down came increasingly disturbing sounds; shuffling and thumping, too muffled to identify the causes, and human voices.

What the _hell_ was going on here? The official interrogation wasn't supposed to begin for another fifteen minutes; Roy was early. It was a risk to show this much interest, but the worried urgency that had driven him down here ahead of schedule suddenly seemed terribly justified.

Roy marched up to the cell door, preparing the keys he'd acquired from the warden, but stopped before he touched the lock. It was turned, and the door was _open_ a crack, what kind of sloppy security was that? Orange-yellow light wormed its way around the cracks in the door, mixed with suddenly much clearer voices. Edward's voice, instantly recognizable, high with some kind of tension or stress; then it was abruptly cut off, and covered in a rush of loud, coarse laughter.

The metal door was heavier than he thought, resisting his thrust at first, and then too heavy for him to stop as it rushed open. Roy let it, stalking in just as the metal door hit the stone wall with a shattering crash. Risky to announce your presence so aggressively, but it had its uses; startling your opponents into immobility, and giving you a free moment in which to react.

And he needed that moment, because the sight he opened the door on sent his mouth dry and his hands frozen, even before the echoes of the crash had faded.

The yellow light came from a single gas lamp by the door, and the orange from a sullen bank of coals on the far wall. There were four men in the room, in the dark gray uniform of Amestrian military enlistees. They looked at him with varying expressions of surprise, alarm, and guilt -- much like schoolboys interrupted by a teacher in the middle of a prank. But Roy's eyes were immediately drawn towards the fifth figure in the room, skin and hair glowing luridly in the mixed light.

Edward's automail arm was gone, leaving the gaping metal port behind, but Roy had steeled himself for that; it was a necessary evil. His ankles had been bound together with cords, and his one remaining arm trailed a heavy dull chain from a manacle around his wrist, jerking up tautly against the steel bars running the height of the room. Roy had expected that, too; even with his arm gone Fullmetal could fight like a tiger, and the guards had experienced enough of his strength to be wary.

He had been stripped of his black jacket and shirt, and his chest and arm and face were livid with bruises, and dark smears of blood. Roy had hoped that would not happen, but he had prepared himself for the possibility. Fullmetal had a talent for making himself difficult, and his opponents angry; and none of these men were stable in the best of circumstances. Breakouts from military prisons, mostly, or men on dishonorable discharge for unacceptable conduct.

But Roy hadn't been prepared for this, the sight that froze him and drained the heat from his face.

He could see Edward's bruised face and chest clearly, because Edward's shoulders were level with his eyes; and he could see at a glance the heavy leather cords around his ankles, because those ankles were dangling over a foot off the ground, kicking and jerking spasmodically in the free air. They had a rope around his neck, they had a rope around his neck and had him pulled clear off the ground, and metal rattled and screeched Edward's arm yanked fruitlessly against the chains, struggling to raise up to his throat to pull the rope away.

And the look on his face --

"What is going on down here?" Roy cracked out sharply, and for a moment he didn't even recognize his own voice. "Put that man down, immediately! Who gave you permission for this?!"

The look of shock on the soldier's faces converted almost immediately to guilt and embarrassment, and one man's arm jerked as he opened his hands. There was a slithering blur of motion, as the dark rope spun up towards the ceiling, and Edward fell abruptly to his feet; and then, unable to catch or steady himself with his ankles tied, sprawled on his face on the floor. The long, wheezing noise that came from his throat as he breathed once more was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

Because at least he was _breathing._

Ed shuddered, then rolled until he was on his back, arm stretched out along the chain towards the bar; the rope coiled loosely now around his neck. His chest rose and fell on heaving, gasping breaths, and Roy forced himself to wrench his gaze away as his face began to cycle back down from purple, to a more health red and pink color. The expression on Edward's face still seared him; pain, burning outrage and fury... but behind the snarl, pooling in the whites of his eyes, was _fear._

Raw, newborn terror, and uncertainty, seeping in to sap and undermine his defenses. And Roy knew that Edward was strong, Edward could and always had taken care of himself, and that Edward's way of handling fear was to step up the bravado and the defiance... but that wasn't going to work here, not when things were this badly out of control. These people would hurt him, these people could _kill him,_ without blinking an eye; they could even do it by accident, as well as on purpose.

And Roy had always wished that Edward would understand that for once, and not charge so headlong into danger, but he hadn't wanted the lesson to come like _this._

Enough. Roy had to take control of this situation, and fast. So far a loud noise and a commanding voice had been enough, but that wasn't going to keep them obedient for long. He inhaled sharply, and then said, in a voice much closer to his usual tone: "Who was in charge of supervising the prisoner? Well?"

Some shuffling and shifting gazes, but then three of them subtly shifted their attention to a fourth, singling him out. At least they weren't all grouping together in defense of each other. Roy focused on the sacrificial goat. "Explain yourself," he snapped, but then, before letting him start: "This prisoner is an alchemist, and as such could prove of great importance to the Mission. He's no use to anyone if you carelessly kill him! Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

There was some sullen muttering, and shuffling, but then the spokesperson gave in. "We weren't going to kill him, sir," he mumbled defensively. "We only hauled him up a few times, to teach him a lesson -- he hasn't even passed out yet. He was giving us trouble, sir, mouthing off --"

"You were not authorized to take such risks," Roy said coldly, folding his arms sternly across his chest. He wondered if he could take the dramatic moment to pull his gloves out of his pocket and don them. "His dead body would be on _my_ hands to explain to the brass, and for what? Are you so weak against the words of a sixteen-year-old-brat?"

"He wouldn't have _died,"_ piped up one of the other guards in support of his fellow, and the other two nodded fervently. "We know what we're doing, see? No way that knot would have broke his neck, and he wasn't up there near long enough to strangle. He was still kicking plenty, wasn't he?"

It was probably a good thing, Roy decided, that he hadn't put his gloves on after all. If he had, he probably couldn't he resisted the temptation to incinerate all four of them.

From the floor, Edward made a hoarse sound, then cleared his throat gratingly. "What's the matter, Colonel?" he said, voice scratching unpleasantly against Roy's ears. Edward lifted his head to glare at Roy, one eye bloodshot and near-swollen shut, but still furious and still, Roy could see it, wild with panic. "Can' you... control these apes, huh? Maybe you're... upse' they started wi'out you?" He gave a ghastly laugh.

Safest to ignore him, Roy judged, and maybe set an example too. "Furthermore, this door was unlocked when I arrived, posing a severe security risk," he continued his dressing-down. "If this happens again, you men will be put on report. There's no place in this Mission for random prisoner brutality --"

"--especially not outside the context of controlled interrogations, isn't that right?" a new voice broke in, and Roy barely controlled his flinch. Damndamn_damn,_ had it been fifteen minutes already? Carefully, he turned to see the source of the voice standing in the doorway; Lieutenant Colonel Lancet.

No, it hadn't been fifteen minutes. Lancet was early, too. Only in his case -- knowing the man -- it was probably out of eagerness. The man returned a bland smile, a facade of affability over glittering malice. "Hello, Colonel. I hope there's no trouble, is there?"

Roy could have spit. Lancet was one of the worst of the Loyalists, embodying most of their worst qualities with few to none redeeming. The man was former Military Intelligence -- _former,_ since he had long since been cashiered out of even that formidable branch for brutality. But in the Mission, Lancet had found work again -- converting their captives, prisoners, and prospective recruits into 'loyal' followers.

For a time, Lancet had been in charge of overseeing the of all prospective new recruits. He'd been relieved of that responsibility at just about the same time that Roy had joined the organization, and had made no secret of his displeasure that he had not been allowed to assure Roy's 'loyalty.' He'd been a thorn in Roy's side ever side, always on the lookout for some chance to prove Roy a traitor, always hungry for some opportunity to return his old position of authority.

Who in _hell_ hated Roy enough to put Lancet on interrogation duty together with him? Was this some kind of setup? Roy gritted his teeth. "Nothing I couldn't handle," he forced past stiff lips. "These men were acting without authorization. Further, their security checks --"

"Well, well, Mustang, I don't think you should be so hard on the boys." Lancet sauntered into the cell, his hands in his pockets. Edward started as he caught side of his face, his good eye widening in recognition. "What's the harm in being enthusiastic about their work? It's what we're here for, after all."

After a moment, Roy said through his teeth, "I'm somewhat surprised to see you here, Lieutenant Colonel. I had been under the impression that you had more pressing duties today." Counted on it, in fact; checked the duty roster and praised heaven to see it.

Lancet smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, again. "If it's important enough to be worth your attention, Mustang, shouldn't it be worth mine? Don't worry, I won't interfere; I just thought I would tag along... see how a _real_ loyalist handles these things."

The threat hung heavily in the air between them, and Roy's nails bit into the palm of his hands. He was walking on very, very thin ice here, and they both knew it.

Roy saw the enlisted men exchanging looks, a certain cunning creeping back into their faces, and cursed silently. Damn Lancet and his little games -- the men could sense the division in leadership, in authority, and wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of it. Bad for discipline, bad for control in any situation, let alone one as volatile as this.

"Well?" Lancet came to a stop barely a foot away from Roy, and leaned forward into his personal space, their eyes locked together. Roy eyed the four-inch height difference between them with great annoyance, and for a moment almost sympathized with Ed.

The tension stretched unbearably, for a long moment; but in the end it was neither Lancet nor Mustang that broke the stand-off, but Edward.

Roy had no idea how Edward had done it; whether he had worked some sly alchemy while the guards were distracted, or if they had just underestimated the smallness and dexterity of his human hand. But somehow, in one moment his wrist was out of the manacle and his arm was free; planting his arm on the ground, he swept his bound legs together in an arc, striking the nearest guard across the back of the legs, and brought him down.

The room exploded into chaos. Ed flipped himself onto his stomach and lunged violently across the floor, hand reaching frantically for something to use as a weapon. Roy's hands clawed for his gloves; he had one out and on before his frozen mind had even decided which side he wanted to defend here. He had a bare instant to think about possible attack angles, escape routes -- and then it was too late.

The other three guards dogpiled on top of Edward, who was shouting as they struggled to flatten him to the ground. Lancet had started forward, although not too far, and a sidearm had appeared in his hands only seconds after the gloves appeared in Roy's. "Stop him!" the Lieutenant Colonel was shouting. "Hold him down! Pin his legs!"

Edward was still struggling, but he had lost leverage; the guards were getting back into the rhythm of things, raining and heavy fists and booted kicks down on him. Would Edward give up before he passed out? Would the guards stop before they killed him? Roy raised his hand and snapped, and a blinding flash lit the cell. A searing wave of heat followed, briefly, but winked out before it could burn. "Enough!" he bellowed.

Fortunately, everyone stopped after that, blinking dazedly to clear their eyes. Edward, on his stomach with his arm twisted behind his back, was panting like a wounded animal. The fallen guard got to his feet, swearing foully and clutching his limbs. Another one of the guards was nursing his jaw, and a murderous expression.

"Little bastard." He spat, and blood and spittle rained onto Edward's bare back. "I think he broke a fucking tooth!"

"How did he get loose?" Lancet demanded, voice tense; Roy could see that he was shaken by the sudden outburst of violence. He walked over to the bars, Lancet following a distrustful step behind, and peered down at the end of the chain. A dark liquid glistened in the unsteady light. The manacle's outer edge was sharp, Roy realized as he touched it, and his hand came away red. Edward had used his blood as lubricant to slip out of the chain.

_Oh, Edward._ Roy mourned, and wiped his hand down the front of his jacket. _How can you be this stupid? If you could have gotten free at any time, you should have waited until you were alone, and used alchemy to escape. _Too late now, and _now_ they had to deal with it. He straightened up, setting his grimmest expression on his face, and turned away. Lancet, unfortunately, was also regaining his composure.

"Well, well, that was invigorating," the Lieutenant Colonel said, sarcasm infecting his voice. "An attempted escape. Mustang, I certainly hope your past... acquaintance with the boy doesn't inspire you to be _lenient_ on him after something like this."

_Damn it!_ The four soldiers were listening closely, human tape recorders to report to the brass. Any statement, any action he tried to make on Edward's behalf would be damning -- for both of them. "On the contrary," he said, in his coldest voice. "It seems that everything you do is expressly to make trouble for me, Fullmetal. I think it's high time some... _discipline_ is in order."

The look that Edward flashed him then nearly flayed him, and Roy felt his stomach clench. Should he have taken the risk, thrown himself into an ill-timed escape attempt? Maybe if he could have gotten the drop on Lancet -- but no. It was just impossible. "Bastard," Ed hissed, breathing with difficulty under the weight of the boots on him. "Always knew you'd sell your own mother for a cent. Get in reach down here and I'll show _you_ discipline -- I'll tear your motherfucking head off --"

Edward's arm was raised a few inches; Edward arched his back and made a keening noise. The solder with the bloody mouth grabbed Edward's hair harshly, and ground his face hard into the stone floor. "You just never _shut up,_ do you, punk?" he hissed.

The soldier that had been knocked to the floor took aim and swung his foot, and the steel tip of the boot caught Edward's left ribcage with a nasty-sounding crunch. Edward's shoulders jumped, but with his face mashed to the floor and his legs pinned it was impossible to move to avoid it. Roy winced. "All right, enough," he said. "Get him up, and get him back into the chains."

Lancet, who had been standing to the side with his arms folded, raised one finger. "Ah-ah," he said. "No, my all means continue, men. After all," he turned smilingly to Roy, "they _are_ the professionals in the matter."

"For a crip with only one hand, he sure is a lot of trouble," one of the soldiers said; directing the remark not towards Roy, the ranking officer, but instead towards Lancet.  
Edward's hand was released, and he gasped in relief as the pressure lessened, wriggling to bring it back to his side.

As soon as it touched the floor, though, a boot slammed down on his hand, crushing it to the floor. Roy started forward despite himself, then jerked to a stop. The soldier grinned as he ground down, drawing a gasping scream from Ed. "Think we should squash the trouble out of it, sir?"

"Absolutely not!" Roy interjected, shaken, but it was to Lancet that the soldiers were looking for permission.

The Lieutenant Colonel seemed to consider this for a moment, a tiny smile on his face, and then shook his head. "No, no, no need to be barbarous about this," he said, and Roy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Too soon; Lancet reached into his uniform jacket, and pulled out an object that made a high metal _shiiiing;_ a thin, deadly sharp knife blade glittered in the lamp-light. "It would be much simpler just to remove the fingers cleanly. Not the _whole_ hand, however; that would cause excessive bleeding. Would you like to begin, Sergeant?"

"_Must_ I remind you, gentlemen," Roy said, pulling up to his full height and raising his voice, "that our first commitment is to the _Mission, _and not to petty revenge? The brass has expressed interest in recovering Fullmetal as a cooperative and useful Alchemist. And perhaps you wouldn't know this, Lieutenant Colonel," he said, turning to Lancet, "but I assure you that one actually needs to be able to read and write, in order to qualify as an Alchemist."

It was not calculated to endear him to Lancet, and the man frowned in a dangerous way; but at least it restored him some measure of his authority in the room, and holy mother of God, he needed it. He jerked his chin up slightly, to increase his presence, and strolled across the floor towards Edward.

The men glanced at each other, and him, as he approached; but he signaled with one gloved hand, and the man with his boot on Edward's hand let up the pressure, and backed away. "Stand him up." Hopefully, standing upright, Edward would not make such a tempting target for blows.

Edward made a small noise as he was shifted; that broken rib must hurt like hell, Roy thought sympathetically, But that was all; and he stood on his feet, staring defiantly up at Roy through a bloody mask over his face.

He really was a mess, and he swayed perceptibly from side to side; unable to steady himself with hands and feet restrained, he would have fallen if not for the hard grips on his shoulders. Roy narrowed his eyes. "Bring that chair over," he said, jerking his chin at the far end of the cell. "Tie him to it. It's time we had a little chat."

The soldiers obeyed, manhandling Ed roughly into the chair, but he made no noise. Lancet hovered in the background, radiating menace and disapproval, but Roy ignored him, deliberately closing out his involvement in the process. Ed's arm was tied firmly to the back of the chair, and his legs to the chair legs. The rope trailing from his neck was wrapped around the bars of the chair and pulled taut, yanking his head at a backwards angle and exposing his throat.

Roy walked deliberately around to the front of the chair, and stood with his arms clasped behind his back, looking Edward up and down. Edward looked back at him with loathing, from that canted angle; but at least his breathing was steady, if too fast and shallow, so he didn't have to come up with an excuse to let him loose yet. Good, since he didn't have one.

"Well," he began, in a mild tone, "Now that you've had a chance to sample the alternatives, Fullmetal, perhaps you should reconsider enlisting with us." _Come on, Edward, take the bait...  
_  
"Go to hell," Edward spat. "I'm not a whore like you. I'm not going to sell myself out."

Roy lifted his hands, raising his glove into a menacing position. "Obviously, you can see that escape is impossible," he said evenly. Sudden inspiration struck. "And if you're counting on help from your brother, you can give it up now," he added.

Ed stiffened, and his eyes flickered up to meet Roy's, suddenly terrified. Roy felt briefly guilty, before continuing with heavy emphasis, "My soldier's reports say that he was shot several times. Even if he escaped, he undoubtedly must have _bled to death_ by now. He _won't_ be back to _help you,_ even if you think you could _hold out_ that long."

Ed's raspy breathing caught, and his eye -- well, the good one, anyway -- grew wide in his head. Roy stared into his face, willing him to _think_ for a moment. _Come on Ed, where's that legendary genius?_ "N-no..." Ed stuttered, gasped. "Th-that's impossible..."

"So you can see," Roy said smoothly, his voice as persuasive as possible. The soldiers were beginning to fidget, looking bored, and Lancet was circling closer. "Cooperating with us is really in your best interests. Just imagine... Edward," he made the name almost seductive. "Join with us, and you'll be treated quite well. You might even be put to work under me --"

"If you think," Edward interrupted, and his voice was raspy and harsh, "If you think that I'm going to lower m-myself to that, to, to crawling in the muck with a bunch of slime-grubbers like you --"

One of the thugs started forward, with a shouted curse. Roy grabbed his hand, putting a temporary halt to it. Edward jerked his chin up in defiance. " --then you must have gone drooling senile. I'll never join you, never! I'd sooner die!" The emphasis on his speech left him panting, curling in on his injured chest a bit.

_Oh, for God's sake, Edward._ Roy was getting a headache. It was asking too much, Roy knew. Edward was hurting, furious, and scared nearly out of his mind; thinking logically was far on the back burner for him now. Unfortunately, that meant that he was left running on reflexes, and trying to defend himself as he always did -- meeting threat with defiance, fear with bravado, and guile with rejection.

He gathered his wits to try again, but suddenly Lancet was there at his elbow, maneuvering him aside. "Well, well, this is getting us nowhere," he said, in an almost cheerful tone. "There are rather more unpleasant things than dying, you know. I think it's high time to introduce you to some of those... _alternatives_ again."

He had the knife out. Roy was forced to fall back, or be sliced open when Lancet oh-so-casually swung it around. "Lieutenant-Colonel, you're out of line," he said warningly. "I already told you, we need him functional --"

"Yes, yes, I know," Lancet beamed, and there was a look in his eyes that made Roy's stomach crawl. "He needs his hand, you told me. And I don't know much about alchemy, it's true, but I'm sure you'll tell me he needs his eyes, too -- or at least one of them. But that leaves so many more options, doesn't it? That foul mouth, for example."

Roy started to lunge forward. But the point of the knife swung around again, leveled right towards his chest, and the light glittering off the metal was like the light in Lancet's eyes. "Sergeant, heat up that poker," he called, not taking his eyes off Roy. "We don't want our guest bleeding to death, oh no, certainly not. Corporal, get his mouth open --_hold_ him still --"

Edward had exploded into struggling, spitting frenzied curses. Three of the soldiers had piled on him again, holding his arm down, clamping his head in place. The fourth had gone eagerly towards the fire, and there was a scraping sound of metal over coals. Roy's head felt curiously light, and buzzing. This couldn't happen. He couldn't let this happen...

What could he do? There was no way to go over Lancet's head -- and no time. If he left now to get backup, it would be too late. If he tried to jump them, he would just be overpowered. He had to deal with things here, somehow, himself. But how?

Lancet was dead set, ha, on opposing him -- and more, on forcing him to betray himself. Lancet was his junior, but if he could present Roy as a traitor to the brass, Roy would be out -- probably tied to some chair of his own -- and Lancet would be promoted. He was trying to provoke Roy into reacting, into providing solid proof of his disloyalty. He would keep pushing this, and the more Roy tried to intervene to protect Edward, the more he would push. To break this cycle, Roy had to move in an unexpected direction, do some pushing of his own.

The soldiers wanted blood, wanted a show, and they were growing more and more impatient every time he put them off, turning to the Lieutenant Colonel instead of himself. He had to do something, something to grab their obedience back; something that would promise them more entertainment than Lancet's bloody knifework.

He drew in a breath. This might work. This might save them both. And if it did, he was going to be hard put to ever forgive himself.

The two other soldiers had gotten Ed's head pinned back, clenched jaw pried apart; his hand jerked and twisted uselessly at the cords. Something glittered as it trailed down the side of his face, from the corner of his tight-squeezed eye to his temple, and Roy's could only pray the others hadn't seen it.

"Iron's almost ready, sir," the sergeant reported, sounding eager, and Lancet's attention drifted in that direction. In that instant, Roy moved; darting his arm forward to tightly grab his wrist.

Immediately Lancet's attention switched back to him, but his grip had loosened, and Roy deftly twisted the knife out of his hand. Lancet opened his mouth, eyes narrowed, face triumphant, but Roy beat him to speaking.

"You boys have no idea what you're about to waste," he said scornfully; and when the suspicious, uncertain men turned their gazes to him, he put on his best knowing leer.

"What are you talking about?" Lancet demanded, shaking his arm free of Roy's grasp. Roy let him go, but he kept the knife, holding it up as to admire the light, before posing dramatically with it. Showmanship, that was going to have to be the key.

"Fullmetal's made quite a name for himself in the years he's been working _under_ me --" he paused to let that one sink in, and widened his smirk. Well, the first part was true, anyway. "And from the reports I have received, let me tell you, there's not a finer mouth to be had in all of the East. Plenty of witnesses to confirm it, of course; I was amazed at the number of cocks he's reportedly serviced in a single week. Speaking of whores!" He did his best to sound scornful and indignant, as if stung by Ed's earlier words.

The corporal holding Ed's head down looked at his fellow, nudged him with an elbow, and sniggered; two others grinned. Roy's heart was beating a mile a minute, but it was working. Only the man holding the poker still looked a little uncertain, a little revulsed; and Lancet, of course...

"Ever tried it yourself, sir?" said the smirking one. Ed gave out a little shaky gasp, but thank God, was not in a position to speak, or ruin Roy's speech.

He flipped the knife in the air, let it twirl, and caught it by the blade as it came down; used it to emphasize his gestures. "Of course not, the Amestrian military had such tedious rules about such things. Just for a little harmless fun, a man could find himself thrown out of the very organization he had served blood and bone --"

Frowns and scowls of remembered injustice. Roy continued on. "But I can't say I never wondered... You have to admit, the face is pretty enough to belong on a girl; why shouldn't the rest of his attributes, as well?"

"Prettier than my last girl," snickered another of the soldiers. "And probably a lot tighter."

Both of the other two laughed now, and Roy laughed along with them. "Quite an unfair temptation, but one I'd never had an opportunity to explore. But now.... well. Well, well, _well,"_ he said, deliberately pitching his tones to imitate Lancet's annoying singsong. "What an opportunity! Speaking of alternatives!"

He had all of their attention now, he realized, with a sick sort of triumph; they were watching him, not Lancet, eager to see what would happen next. What he would do.

He held up the knife disdainfully, between thumb and forefinger. "And I suppose the Lieutenant Colonel here doesn't have the imagination to do anything with this glorious opportunity, except throw it away. What a waste, don't you agree?" He stuck the knife with all the force he could into the right arm of the chair. With any luck, it would be more than the work of a minute to pull it out.

And with that, with all five of them watching him, he reached down and began to stroke his cock through his pants.

* * *

~tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Prisoner's Dilemma - Final Part  
Rating: PG-13+  
Warnings: Dark, angst, violence; references to torture, references to NCS.  
Summary: When Ed gets himself captured by a splinter military cell that has been kidnapping people, he finds Roy Mustang already there. And it may take all his ingenuity to get them both out alive...

Author's Notes: This is the PARTIAL version of the fic 'The Prisoner's Dilemma.' The full version can be found at my profile under scimitarsmile dot com.

* * *

This far below the surface, there was no easy way to tell day from night, but Edward rather thought it was the middle of the night. The complex had gone quiet -- not just the quiet of the cell block that he was in, once all of the officers and enlisted had trooped out and left only a few guards behind, but the quieting of the subtle noises and vibrations traveling through the rock from above.

Even the yellow lamplight from out in the hallway had dimmed -- or was that just an optical illusion, to accompany the new stillness? -- and every now and then it would dim further as a guard patrolled the hallway. Ed wasn't sure how many other people were in this part of the cell block with him; he couldn't be sure if he'd heard any voices or noises from the other cells earlier, and if anyone was there now, they'd gone quiet. Maybe sleeping.

Edward wasn't sleeping; although physical exhaustion dragged his limbs and fogged his thoughts, he was still too rattled from the day's events -- and the nagging pain in his bones and flesh -- to relax. This was the first time since his overpowering and capture that he'd had a chance to think things over, and it was an opportunity he wasn't going to waste.

First. That this whole screwup was much, much larger than either he or Al had suspected it to be -- that had become obvious in the first ten minutes. This wasn't just an outpost for illegal refining operation; this was the central hub of a whole network of clandestine operations. Ed had still seen no sign of the missing craftsmen and specialists, and no hint of what all those resources were going into, but he thought he could make a few guesses.

Second -- that the military was involved in some way. Just how much official involvement Ed still didn't know. Despite the badges, and the rhetoric, and the weird new names and jargon that had never appeared in the Amestrian military that Ed knew, there were too many officers who were too senior -- was that guy, Admiral Jaysomething, really a member of the Senior Council? -- for this to be an entirely splinter operation. Wasn't it?

Third... alchemy. Ed couldn't keep from shivering; the cold stone busily leeching heat out of him was bad enough, but the memory of all those hallways, perfectly smooth, was even more chilling. How long had State Alchemists been in on this? How many of them were there? The mysterious Undermine, whom Edward hadn't yet met -- and, of course, Flame...

Ed's shoulders hunched automatically; he tucked his knees closer to his chest, wrapped his one good arm around them, and glared indiscriminately into the dimness. Damn Mustang, _damn_ Mustang, what the hell was the man playing at? Nothing he was doing made sense. If he wasn't a traitor, then what was he doing here, feeding information and alchemy into this crazy cabal? And if he was a traitor, then why hadn't he told them the truth about Al?

No matter how he turned the man's actions over and over in his head, he couldn't seem to make them fit a pattern. What was his game? Feverishly, he spun the man's actions today through his mind again. At some times, it almost seemed like Mustang was trying to help him, protect him. At other moments -- about as far from help as you could possibly get.

Was he loyal to the State, or not? Or maybe he really was a traitor, but he still had enough of a soul left to him to feel sorry for him? Or was that just an act to soften him up, to try and lure him to change sides and become part of this operation? Ed growled, baring his teeth in the cold darkness. Mustang could rot in hell a thousand years before Ed ever lifted a hand to help these bozos.

The thought flared hot, for a moment, and helped warm him with defiance. All too soon, though, it lost his energy, and left him shivering harder on the stone floor. He scowled as he drew himself into a tighter curl. Damn sadistic bastards, couldn't even bother to give him a blanket after they --

He deliberately broke that thought off before it could lead anywhere, and turned instead to thoughts of outside. Where was Al during all this? If what Lancet had said -- and what Mustang had said -- were true, then he hadn't been caught or captured. But that had been hours ago, and even if he had managed to evade capture, Ed knew -- he didn't just hope, he _knew_ -- that Al would still be nearby, looking for a chance to find Ed and rescue him.

_Oh, please_, Ed thought fervently, _Al, get your ass in gear_. As much as it would make more sense for Al to get as far away as possible, get to Central and raise the alarm -- Ed could really use a rescue, here, he really could. And now would be a good time, a very good time, while it was still dark and quiet and there weren't many people around, before morning came and these god damned Mission bastards came back to --

_Stop that_! Ed kicked himself mentally. This was no time to be wallowing in self-pity and hysteria. If there was any damn rescuing to be done around here, then he was just going to have to do it himself.

Slowly, he began to straighten up from his tight curl, suppressing an unworthy whine as the cold stone immediately sucked away whatever heat he had managed to hoard.

Standing. Standing up would be a good first step. On his first attempt, he made it to his hand and knees; wobbled for a moment, trying to find his balance, but then his shoulder twinged madly and his arm gave out, pitching him forward onto his face.

_On second thought_, he thought as he blinked away the stars and spat out a new trickle of blood, _maybe I should work on *sitting* up first._ Damn, he missed his automail!

With some difficulty, he managed to crab himself into a sitting position, but winced against a sudden flare of pain as he tried to sit back. Cursing under his breath, he managed to crap himself over to the wall of the cell, where he could lean back against something solid and take his weight off his ass.

This was somewhat better than lying down -- at least his head cleared somewhat -- but if anything, it was even colder. He shivered violently for a moment, then forced the thought aside as he tried to concentrate on his options.

From this angle he could see the window of the cell door a little better; could see the shadow of the sentry as he made his rounds. He started a slow count in his head, between the time he passed and the time he returned. Aside from the patrolling guard, how many more were they? Ed considered the prospect of trying to fight a full grown man -- or more than one -- with no alchemy and no automail, in his current state, and felt briefly queasy. Put that aside for now; better to escape without fighting anyone, if he could help it.

What else did that leave? Ed chewed on his lip, in thought, and tried to force his mind to move more freely. He didn't have his automail arm, but he could still do alchemy -- if he could find something to draw arrays with.

Well, that's one thing that won't be a problem, Ed thought blackly, and touched his fingers to his lips. They came away wet; he couldn't see colors well in this light, but he didn't need to.

His best bet would probably be a tunnel leading straight up, Ed decided. He didn't know how far underground they were, but if he just kept going vertically he'd get out_sometime._ Transmuting through solid stone would be exhausting and tedious, but not complicated. The biggest danger in that would be that he would accidentally open up onto an occupied tunnel or room above him -- or that he would lose his grip while climbing, and fall.

For that matter, the guards were still a problem. Ed bit his lip again, tasting blood, and concentrated on listening hard. How far away were the centries from here? Would they recognize the sound of alchemy being performed, and come to investigate? How clearly could they hear noises from inside his cell, and would they know to think anything of it?

It was only because he was listening hard, concentrating, that Edward was able to hear what happened next. The brief sound of a human voice -- not a word, just a noise that was halfway between a gasp and an "ugh."

Edward sat bolt upright, ignoring the protesting cries of his ribs and stomach, and listened intently.

Straining his ears, he was just able to catch the sound of footsteps as they started up again -- heading in this direction? Yes, because they became clearer the longer he listened. No sounds of metal on metal, though; no clanking of armor.

His heart began to hammer in his chest. This could be very good, or very bad, depending on who it was and what was going on. Okay... more likely to be very bad than good. If it was Mustang -- If it was Lancet --

He had a brief, blissful moment entertaining himself with a fantasy of what he could do if Lancet was stupid enough to come within arms reach of him, alone; but that vision crashed all too soon, because while Lancet had been sadistic, he hadn't shown himself to be stupid, and the chance that he would come down here without a backup or at least a weapon was slim at best.

Ed was still trying, without success, to formulate a plan that would let him jump a whole, healthy, and well-armed man, when the lock on his cell door clicked, and the heavy steel slab swung open. Lamplight flooded in from the corridor -- it was still dim, but there was far more of it than had been allowed in by the tiny window -- and Ed cursed and blinked away swimming spots as he lost whatever chance of a surprise attack he might have had.

A man was standing silhouetted in the door, and despite himself, ed couldn't stop himself from shaking as he squinted against the light.

It was Mustang.

Ed was assaulted by such a surge of mixed emotions -- relief and renewed fear, hope and disgust and fury -- that for a moment he couldn't react. He had seen Mustang once, briefly and out of the corner of his eye, after the man had disappeared from his cell, leaving behind Lancet and his thugs.

Everything after that had been a blur, and Ed couldn't think about it, wouldn't think about it -- but he had scattered, confused memories of what had come after, when the small metal room was suddenly filled with a booming furious voice, and shouting, and panic. He'd seen a large, blurry, rumpled figure someone had called Admiral -- Admiral Jay-somethings -- and a half dozen new guards, in officer blues instead of enlisted blacks. It seemed that Lancet was in some kind of trouble, and Edward had been deliriously satisfied at that.

He'd seen Mustang among them, briefly, his face white and strained and impassive, and that had been the last thing he'd seen before he blacked out.

He hadn't been out long -- he thought -- but when he could see clearly again, Lancet and Admiral Jaysomethings and Mustang had all been gone, along with the thugs, and just one, unfamiliar, officer in blue had remained. The guy had been apparently waiting for him to wake up; he hadn't said anything, but gave Edward a strange, pitying look before he turned and left the cell, leaving him alone.

Alone, with his mind coming slowly back together as the base had quieted and the light dimmed. Alone, with nothing to do but think.

"Hey, Mustang," Ed said, his lips and jaw moving stiffly -- his throat was scraped and his voice was gravelly, but he was surprised by how normal his tone sounded. "Come to finish things off down here?"

For a moment the man stood silent, and Ed cursed that his back was to the light so he couldn't see his expression -- not that he'd ever been able to read Mustang's expression. Then he stepped forward, into the cell. "In a sense," his familiar voice said quietly. "Stand up."

Even though he'd sworn that he would never obey, never work with any bastard from this mission, the habit of command to this man was too strong to ignore. Slowly, bracing himself against the wall behind him, he managed to inch his way to his feet. Dizziness assaulted him as the new positions hifted his injuries, and he swayed for a moment before propping himself back against the wall. His legs were trembling, but he opened his eyes to glare at his new visitor. _See, you bastard? I'm not down for the count yet._

"Can you walk?" Mustang asked him, with an impassive expression.

"Why should I make your job easier?" Ed fired back insolently. It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but it was just so easy to reply to Mustang with sarcasm and defiance; comfortable, almost.

The corner of Mustang's mouth pulled down. "Because all things considered, I would prefer not to have to drag you," he replied, a hint of snap in his voice. He looked Edward up and down. "Or would you prefer to be carried? You're just about small enough for it."

Ed gritted his teeth, enraged by the insult despite the ridiculousness of the context. "Fuck you." With an effort, he managed to center his weight again, swaying slightly on his feet, and took a tentative step. It hurt. Pain flared up from his human leg, worsening as it traveled up through his hips and ass, stomach and ribs, until even his shoulder twinged. Ed winced, took another step, then had to stop to regain his balance. "I might need some help," he admitted, grudgingly.

Without changing expression, Mustang stepped to his side and took hold of Ed's upper arm, steadying him and offering support. Ed tried not to be grateful, however grudging, as the older man pulled him out of the cell and into the corridor.

There were no other guards to be seen. Much to Edward's surprise, they turned not to the right towards the stairs, but to the left, leading further into the cell block. Ed's confusion and uncertainty began to rise.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"The stairs on this end lead up to the utility tunnels, for quicker re-supply to the cell area," Roy replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "From there there's a set of tunnels that eventually leads outside. Roundabout, but safer. It's guarded, of course, but I've taken care of that."

Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, it took several minutes for the implications of that to sink in. When they did, he stumbled, a sudden surge of wild hope and fear battling for dominance. His mouth dry, all Edward could think to say was, "Won't -- won't somebody come down and find the guards are gone?"

"Everyone upstairs will shortly be too occupied to worry about that," Roy said quietly.

Ed listened, hard, trying to hear over the roaring in his ears. Everything sounded as silent, and still, as before.

"Nevertheless," Roy added after a minute, "it would be better if you could walk a little faster. If you can."

"You could always carry me," Ed jabbed at him, but he did his best to increase his pace anyway. He saw, though, that Roy had his other hand free and carried slightly in front of him, with the glove on, ready to snap. And Roy's eyes never stopped scanning the darkness ahead and to the side of them.

Roy didn't reply, and that was just as well, because breath was increasingly hard to come by, and Ed soon didn't have any to spare for bantering. Every step seemed to send curling flares of fire from between his hips, twisting up through his gut to flash out in his chest. Sweat began to break out on his skin, and he found himself shivering uncontrollably.

Roy stopped, and Ed pulled against his arm for a moment, confused, before Roy suddenly released him. Ed was best by a sudden fear that Roy was going to tell him off for being too slow -- but instead, Roy unclasped his military jacket, shrugged it off his arms, and swung it around to settle on Ed's shoulders in one fluid movement.

Before Ed, confused, could put his hand through the sleeves, Roy had taken hold of his arm and was urging him forward again. He had to settle for twisting both lapels in his one good hand, to keep the coat from falling off his empty shoulder.

They reached the end of the corridor, and Roy pulled them to the right. Before long they encountered a door, pushed to put not latched; Roy swung it open cautiously, then pulled Ed through it and to a flight of stone stairs. Now, if Ed listened, he could hear noises -- very faintly, the ringing sound of running boots, and then, even further, an explosion.

They seemed to be far away, but what if they ran into someone else between here and the exit. "I want my automail," Edward said, somewhat uncertainly, then forced his voice to firm up. "I need my automail. I can't fight without it."

"You can't fight with it, in the state you're in," Roy said, still calmly, scanning a cross-corridor for movement before pulling Ed swiftly across.

"Fuck that, I can still fight if I need to," Ed hissed. "But I'd do a lot more damage if I had my automail. I can't -- I can't do alchemy without it either."

"Your automail is currently sitting in the desk drawer of Admiral Jacobs, three levels up and a mile in the opposite direction from where we're sitting," Roy said irritably. "We shouldn't encounter any problems using this escape route, but we certainly would if we went back for it. Besides, we'd run right into the fighting when the assault force arrives."

Ed bared his teeth. "Some rescue this is turning out to be," he muttered resentfully. "Couldn't even get my automail -- damn it, Mustang, I could have just sat in my cell and waited for the cavalry to arrive."

"Your automail is not covered by orders to kill it at the first sign of conflict rather than risk letting being rescued," Roy said in a cool tone. "The same could not be said of you."

Ed fell silent, a little subdued by this. They passed through more corridors, labyrinthine, identical; Ed quickly lost track of how many turns they had taken, though Roy seemed to know the way. Another hallway ended in a long, steep staircase; Ed nearly cried at the sight of them (not that he would ever do anything so pussy, of course.)

Grimly, he began to struggle up the flight. Soon his heart was pounding in his chest, his lungs screaming until every heaving breath was an agony, and he could barely see the outline of the next step in front of them. Mustang had allowed him to slow and slow further until they were barely crawling around, but when Ed had to stop and take a few deep breaths before attempting another step, he gave Edward's arm a worried squeeze.

"Will you be able to make it?" he asked calmly, but there was an undertone of worry that he couldn't hide. "This is the last set of stairs -- it's not too much further to the outside. Riza and Alex should have set up their operation's base camp not too far from the exit; they'll have a doctor standing by. That's where we have to go. Can you make it that far?"

"Do... I... have... a... choice?" Ed said grimly, struggling up another step.

Mustang wasn't moving with him, however. Catching his breath, Ed glanced to the side to see Roy still stopped on the step down, an intense frown on his face. After a moment, Mustang seemed to come to some decision; giving a small nod, he moved up to the step beside Edward, and then -- to his shock -- crouched down next to him.

"Climb up," he ordered, shrugging his shoulders and turning to offer his back. "You're slowing us down too much, and I don't like the sound of your breathing. As long as you can hold on with your own strength, I can still have my hands free to defend us."

For a moment, Ed couldn't respond, mind still whited out by the unexpected shock. Then his face flushed, faced with the double humiliation of being carried like a child, and being unable to keep moving at a fast enough pace. But mostly it was the shock of Roy making the offer, shaking his hidden, gnawing conviction that Roy was an ice-cold bastard who didn't give a damn. It didn't make _sense_ for Roy to be worried, for him to give a damn, because if he did care, then why... why did he...

Ed wrenched his thoughts firmly back to the present crisis. Roy was right, damn it -- he didn't think he could make it under his own power, even with Roy's help, and every delay raised the risk that they'd run into trouble. And anyway, it was no different from riding on Al's back, a few times when he was injured or exhausted and the nearest inn or town or safe camping place was too far away.

Roy glanced at him again; he ddn't say anything more, but Ed thought he saw a hint of doubt in his dark eyes. Hesitantly, he put his hand on Roy's shoulder, and tried to figure out how to arrange things. Roy was larger than Ed, but considerably smaller than Al, and it was hard to find a place to put his arm that wouldn't choke Roy to death (never a problem with his brother.)

After a few wobbly false starts, he managed to put his legs over Roy's hips, and wrapped his arm around Roy's chest; he even was able to pin the coat against Roy's back so that it didn't fall. Roy nodded sharply in satisfaction, which meant Ed got a faceful of black hair, but then levered himself to his feet with a small grunt and began rapidly climbing the stairwell.

The steps and walls almost flew past -- much faster than Ed had been able to manage -- and Ed closed his eyes, dizzy. "Don't pass out," Roy warned him suddenly, and Ed forced himself awake again. "I need my hands free."

"I'm not planning to," Ed snarled, and renewed his clamp on Roy's colorbone and waist. For a brief, guilt moment he was wondering if he was hurting Roy, though he made no sound or indication of it -- then, he wondered why he should care if he was.

He should be angry with Roy. Somewhere, underneath the exhaustion and hurt and gratitutde, he thought he was -- hugely, furiously angry. Not for what Roy had done to him -- or at least, not just for that -- but for Roy's failure in allowing it to happen, in failing to turn the course of events another way. Ed could see, looking back through his shaken, hectic memories of the past twenty-four hours, the ways in which Roy had pushed and pulled events to try and protect him -- but it hadn't been enough, hadn't succeeded, and there were too many things Roy could have done to change things, and hadn't.

But in spite of that, Ed knew that he had to trust Roy right now, had to trust him as his only way out of this. It was disturbingly easy. Riding on Roy's back let him feel free of the subtle looming threat of the older man looming over him which had plagued him for the last hour; dangerously, it felt more like being carried by his brother, guided by him towards the promise of a safe place.

He heard Roy's voice in his ears again, saying some kind of warning, but it seemed distant and faint and far-off. The last thing he remembered was feeling Roy's rough-gloved hands grabbing onto his elbow, securing him in place, and then all noises faded into a distant gray hum.

Edward faded in and out of consciousness several more times, seeing confusing glimpses of cold dark stone, then cold dark open sky, and the strangely sharp reek of burning metals drifting up to them on some breeze.

Voices came and went, snatches of them.

"Sir! Where have you..."

"...eutenant Armstrong to me."

"....Admiral Jacobs, sir..."

"...nother abductee? God! He's just a kid..."

"...metal Alchemist..."

"...his brother to the hospital, immediately."

That one caught Ed's attention -- Al? Al, where are you? -- and he struggled back towards consciusness, trying to follow that voice. He couldn't manage to open his eyes, but he heard things more clearly, smelled gunpowder and burned cloth and metal, felt rough grass underneath him.

"....believe we can make a clean sweep, sir. About a dozen officers and twice that many enlisted men are still unaccounted for, but we have all the exits sealed and we have control of all the armaments deposits."

"Good. Take charge of Fullmetal; I'll come and supervise the cleanup directly. I don't want anyone to get cocky and make any stupid mistakes."

Somehow, Ed felt like he was being insulted. He was trying to figure out how this applied to him, and lost track of things briefly.

So he was never sure whether he imagined, after that, the feel of a rough-gloved hand stroking through his bangs, or the voice which was rendered almost unrecognizeable by grief and guilt. "I'm sorry, Edward. God, I'm sorry. I wish there had been another way."

* * *

~end.


End file.
